After Hours
by hi.im.will
Summary: [Hairspray] And people wonder why Link spent so much time at the studio...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: First fanfiction I've ever truly tried to write. The first chapter is kind of short but... I tried.**

**Chapter One**

The lights sputtered off with the resounding _thud _of the light switch. The set had fallen dark and the floors glimmered after the janitors' nightly rebuffing. Not a soul stirred on the empty set but Link Larkin who walked directly to the center of the stage and stood there, his hips pivoting, his feet planted, his hands in his pockets. This was his least favorite part of the day: the time to go home.

He took a deep breath of the waxy, sweaty, perfume-filled air and spun on his heel, heading toward the heavy back door. With only the neon red Exit sign to light his way, he did a graceful job of leaving the studio. Putting his hands on the long, metal handle, Link sighed dejectedly and shoved himself out the door. Whether it was the door or Link's reluctance to leave that made it so hard to go, he didn't know. Or he didn't really wanted to face the truth.

The sun was low when Link looked up. The sky stretched endlessly into a soft blue blanket over the city and the sun burned the horizon bright pink. Bitter autumn winds nipped Link's bare hands and he stuffed them in his pockets, back hunched against the breeze. Dead, dry leaves scraped the cracked cement sidewalks Link had become so accustomed to walking on; the wind- that damn wind- whistled through the semi-bare trees. It was only November: the leaves struggled to hold onto the brittle branches for a few more weeks.

Link's dazzling blue eyes glanced into the empty bus stop. It was heavily shadowed, but sheltered from the wind. It had only been five minutes from "quittin' time" (or so Corny happily put it) at the studio. Another bus wouldn't come by for ten minutes, and although it would take Link thirty-five minutes to walk home and fifteen by bus, he kept walking forward, the bus stop seeming to burn a hole in the back of his head. Link rounded a corner and stopped, leaning against the scratchy, graffiti-ed brick walls of an old Baltimore building. He stared at the setting sun for a few intense minutes and started walking again. It was all just to buy him more time.

Link was first to the studio and last to leave every day- every single day since he had started to work there years ago. He beat _Corny Collins _to the set of the _"Corny Collins Show"_. His friends teased him relentlessly about it, which Link took as just a reason to tease. No one would ever wonder _why _he came so late, left so early; they just assumed that he loved his job. Don't get the guy wrong. He _did _love his job, but not because he was dancing up on that stage, or having the whole teenage population of Baltimore cheering for him. No. That was definitely not his reason.

Sooner than Link could have imagined, the sky was a navy sheet across the Earth; stars pierced the inky darkness, twinkling happily. The street lamps flickered to life casting an unnatural light onto the sidewalk that spilled in an orange puddle onto the street. He shuddered, the absence of the sun making the air colder by the second and soon Link had pulled his coat tightly around his body, ducking his head into the collar to hide his ears and neck from the biting cold.

Soon enough, he stood in front of an old brick building, looking up to the flat roof as if desperately trying to see a beacon of hope. Link lifted one foot off the sidewalk and onto the cracked cement stair, his hand resting on the rusted, iron banister. He shivered at the touch of the cold metal but kept walking, knowing that his nonattendance was probably noticed and that his parents were awaiting his arrival sooner than he had arrived… meaning he was going to be in some _serious _trouble once he stepped foot inside that house.

Link took a deep breath and let it out before he twisted the golden doorknob and swung open the door. "Hello?" He called down the hallway. "Mom? Dad?" There was the grating noise of chair being pushed back on hardwood and Mr. Patrick Larkin stood in front of the doorway at the end of the hall, his shadow elongated down the dark entry hallway.

"What took you so long, Link?" He asked as Link approached him, peeling his coat off his arms. "You're ten minutes later than normal. Your mother and I were getting worried."

He was a typical father for the 60s: tall, wiry, and strong. Patrick had a nest of dark brown hair atop his head that matched his hollow chocolate brown eyes to a T. He was a good-natured man, generous and kind, but the problem was that he _was _a typical father for the 60s: he wanted his child to fear him, and in turn for the fear, respect. Mutual or not, he got the respect he wanted, but he had also earned the trepidation of his son along the way- something that would only _grow _with time instead of shrinking and shriveling away. Link was seeing more and more of the angry side of his father every day and that good-natured part seemed to fade with the time.

"Time at the studio ran late," Link lied hastily, walking over to the kitchen table and tossing his coat over the back. "Sorry, Dad."

"Well," Mrs. Lacey Larkin said, motioning with her fork to the plate set for her son at the table. "We were waiting for you. Aren't you able to leave early? You get to the studio early enough."

"You know, she's right, son," Patrick said as Link took his spot at the table. Following suit, Patrick sat and tucked himself into the table. He grabbed his fork and took a bite of his meal before speaking again. "Your mother and I want to _see _you before you die, if that's all right with you and your station manager. Tomorrow, we want you home by five thirty, you understand?"

Link nodded but he still tried to fight. "But, Mom, you get home at six normally, don't you?" Link asked, even though he knew the answer. "You just get off work early on Fridays?" Lacey nodded and set her fork down on her plate.

"Yes," She said. "But it wouldn't hurt you to be home, would it?"

_That's what you think_, Link thought bitterly, stuffing a bite of spaghetti into his mouth and bending his head over his plate as the food splattered on his chin. Patrick smacked Link on the back off the head and Link nearly choked on his food.

"Use your manners, boy," Patrick snapped. "We aren't _dogs_."

"Sorry, Dad," Link muttered to his plate, eyes watering from his choking fit.

"Look me in the eyes when you talk, son," Patrick said hotly to Link. "It's respect."

Link looked up from his plate but not into his father's eyes. "Sorry," He muttered again.

"Speak clearly now," his father demanded.

"I'm _sorry_," Link said, biting back the annoyed tone in his voice. He had never met someone so picky about the way he _spoke_ before in his life. All he wanted to do was finish his food, go upstairs, and finish the algebra homework that he had neglected to do from two nights ago (he had merely gotten away with the demeanor by giving an autographed picture to the teacher. Mrs. Hampton was a _Corny Collins _fan).

"Are you being smart with me, boy?" Patrick asked incredulously.

"What?" Link asked in the same tone. He looked at his mother who was pointedly looking at her spaghetti, clearly more interested in the pasta than in her fighting husband and child. "What? I- no! Of course not!"

"Are you trying to mouth off to me?" Patrick went on his rage without listening to a word coming out of his son's mouth. "You think you can talk to me like that?"

"Dad, I didn't-," Link tried to get in but before he finished his sentence, Patrick scraped back the chair, grabbed a handful of Link's hair and dragged him down the hall and up the staircase.

"Dad, what're you- ow! Dad, stop!" Link bleat incomprehensibly. Patrick didn't hear though. Often when he was in these rants, he was deaf to everything around him, as well as blind to how much he hurt his son; it was a mixture that was bad to cross in this certain situation.

Once at the top of the stairs, Link was still babbling, and Patrick led them into his and his wife's bedroom. Link tried to stop himself from being brought in but with one rough tug from Patrick's strong hands, he stumbled into the room, falling onto the floor in his ungainly haste. Patrick let go of Link and fiercely tugged open the top drawer of his dresser, shoving his hand through a bundle of socks and shirts to grab his object of desire.

"Dad, I swear, I wasn't talking back!" Link prattled on, unaware to the annoyance he was causing his already angered father. "I really wasn't!"

Patrick didn't listen as he slid a black leather belt out of the drawer. He slammed the drawer closed and looked at his son, anger blaring behind his eyes. The silver buckle of the belt disappeared under Patrick's strong hand as he wrapped his hand around either end of the belt. Link gulped and stumbled to his feet, his fear not allowing him to remember how he got to the floor in the first place.

"Link, when are you going to learn?" Patrick asked, sounding- to Link- like an evil character on a television show. "When are you going to learn?" And just like that, the metal buckle was released from Patrick's hand and brought down onto Link's back. Link cried out in pain.

"I'm sorry!" Link cried desperately. "I'm so sorry!"

After about a dozen more lashes from the belt, Patrick froze and returned the item back where he had gotten it. He turned and looked down at his son who was on the floor, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Link bit his lip and felt the warm, salty tears slide down his cheek, leaving behind shining trails that shone in the light of a nearby reading light.

"I'm sorry I had to do that, Link," Patrick squatted down to his son's current eyelevel and tried to look Link in the eye with no prevail. Link didn't want to look his father in the face at the moment so he refused to turn his head up. "But you have to learn," Patrick semi-appeased the boy. "You have to learn to stop smarting off." Link just nodded, unable to speak for the hard lump in his throat made it known to Link that if he tried to speak, he would burst out in tears. It was better to just nod and walk away.

_And people wonder why Link spent so much time at the studio._

**Author's Note: Note that I have number dyslexia and if my numbers seem incredibly off, just tell me and I'll try to fix it. **

**Also note, this story is all from personal experience, so I'm pretty sure you won't find a story with this much insight into the abuse. If you have trouble _swallowing _abuse, I honestly don't mind if you stop reading. Abuse isn't much of a fun thing to read. Or go through, I might add.**

**There will be a lot of CornyLink friendship in this story because I found having a young adult by my side one of the most comforting things you could get. I felt Link deserved that, too. (Did I mention I get WAY too into my characters?) I don't think I'll do a pairing because honestly, Tracy bugs me to no end, I can't see A PennyLink ever happening, and AmberLink seems too... picture perfect.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Link stood up a few minutes later and dragged himself heavily into his bedroom. He swung his door shut with a bang and tossed himself onto his unmade bed. He groaned as his raw back hit the mattress and turned onto his stomach, trying to ease the pain. Link looked at his clock that read seven o' clock. He groaned. It was still _that early_?

Link rolled off his bed and went to his dresser to change into something more suitable for the night. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror want what he saw, he did not like: his hair was unkempt, hanging in his face (the only time Link ever had his hair slicked back was at school and at the studio. At home, the greasy hair was ditched.), his eyes were red, matching the hue of his nose, and he looked just plain… tired. His face had an exhausted feel that no matter how he changed his expression, he couldn't make himself look any better.

Link turned back to his dresser but froze and went back to the mirror. He saw a slit in his sweater than dragged from his shoulder and (he assumed) down his back. Link sighed as he pulled the sweater over his head, his raw shoulders aching in protest. He flipped the sweater over in his hands, letting the fabric fold limply into his palms. There were at least four long gashes etching their way over the back of his jersey. Link's stomach turned to lead, thinking of what must lay _under _where the sweater had been.

His trembling fingers grabbed at his white undershirt and he yanked it off his head in one fluid movement. Link scooped the sweater off the ground and fumbled with it for a few moments, trying to delay what he knew he was going to see. He turned his back on the mirror and craned his neck over his shoulder to get a good look at his bare back. It wasn't pretty: each place the belt struck, a red welt appeared in its spot. Old bruises were just beginning to fade but Link knew that those red welts would soon fade purple, black, and blue, leaving a new trail of bruises down his back.

Shaking, Link perched himself on the corner of his mattress. One elbow balanced on his knee, the hand at the end of the arm holding Link's shaking head. Link's other hand still clutched at the ruined sweater, his knuckles slowly turning white with the effort of holding it so tightly. He head swung, as if it was a pendulum, back and forth in disbelief. Again, Link had worked hard to avoid punishment, and again, punishment found its way back to him.

Link opened one bleary eye and peaked at the stack of books on his desk. He had a lot of homework to catch up on and he knew that he couldn't buy himself anymore time. He was getting tired though. They had a long rehearsal after the show that day and his body was desperate to climb under his covers. It was Friday. Homework could wait.

**AfterHoursAfterHoursAfterHoursAfterHoursAfterHoursAfterHoursAfterHoursAfterAfterHoursAfterHours **

"Link!" Corny called the moment Link walked into the studio twenty minutes early. Link smiled as he headed over to the young man. Corny wrapped an arm around Link's shoulder and Link winced in pain. If Corny noticed, he ignored it, because he kept talking. "I came in early to see if I could catch you before Hair and Make Up came in and tried to kill us."

Link laughed. Corny was the only guy he knew that would lighten his horrible mood. Corny was the only guy who had ever seen him without his hair slicked back aside from his parents. Corny was the guy who taught Link how to do the Twist. Corny was the only one to know that Link's real name was Lincoln and in turn Link was the only one to know that Corny's real name was Cornelius. Corny knew every detail about Link's life… except the biggest one. Every day, Link tried talking to Corny at least once. He needed something to brighten the day, especially knowing what he would go home to. Corny gave him the push he needed to go home.

"I was thinking," Corny began, walking towards the dressing rooms. Link obediently followed the host, smiling broadly. "Would _you_… like to sing the theme tonight? Just for a try?"

"Really?" Link asked, his eyes widened in awe. Corny pat Link on the back, which caused Link to once more wince. Corny eyed him but started to talk again.

"Sure! Why not?" Corny asked happily, sitting in Brad's chair that sat adjacent to Link's. Link took the seat next to Corny, still shocked at the offer. "You've got the voice and definitely have the moves. I'll just sing my introductory line before Roll Call and you can do the rest. How does that sound?"

"That sounds…" Link couldn't even describe how happy he was. "That sounds amazing! Thanks so much, Corny!"

"Hey, don't mention it!" Corny said with a smile. The smile dropped and he added in an undertone, "Seriously, don't mention it. I haven't run in by Velma yet." Link nodded numbly, astonishment deadening his movements. "So," Corny tried to start a new conversation. "How late were you here last night? I drove past to see if I had left some stuff here and I saw you leave through the back exit."

"Oh, yeah," Link said, snapping out of his surprised state. "Yeah, I was here until six last night. I was talking to Randy about the waxer. I love that thing." He was referring to Randy the janitor who pushed the waxer around the set's floors after rehearsal and/or shows were done. Corny raised his eyebrows in disbelief but again, didn't push for answers.

"Six o' clock?" He asked. "So you missed the five forty-five bus home?"

"Yeah," Link admitted, shrugging his sore shoulders. "Yeah, I got home around six thirty last night. I was out like a light after…" Corny eyed Link as his voice trailed away. "After I got there," Link invented smartly, quickly. "Yesterday was a tough rehearsal!"

"Yeah, Velma sure has begun her crackdown," Corny relaxed in his chair, propping his right ankle on his left knee, and folding his hands on right leg. "Survival of the fittest, no doubt. I think she's trying to fire as many kids as she can. A girl, really. Her daughter Amber wants a spot on the show but we can't afford to pay for a new one. But I didn't tell you that," Corny added, realizing the whole time what he was saying, but not really caring.

"Amber von Tussle?" Link asked, eyebrows raised. "She's in my history class. Quite the charmer, I have to say, making fun of every person who has the displeasure of walking under her radar."

"Like mother like daughter, I say," Corny said bitterly. Link let out a short laugh, looking at the annoyed look on his older friend's face. The look snapped away at Link's laugh and creased into a smile. "What?"

"You _really_ don't like Ms. von Tussle, do you?" Link asked, leaning back in his chair.

"No, not at all," Corny said, his voice stony. "That woman is more racist than any woman I have ever met. And I've lived in Baltimore all my life," He reminded Link who nodded.

Link didn't falter at the word 'racist' as many others would have. Most whites in the town thought themselves better than the blacks but they said that they weren't racist, just trying to point out facts. When it came down to it all, they were racists through and through and Link knew it. Corny was the only person to ever call people on it, though.

"Negro _Day_?" Corny spat angrily. "Why can't we just integrate permanently? I'm sure Miss Maybelle would appreciate…" His voice trailed and his cheeks reddened. Link found himself smiling. He latched his hands behind his head as if he were lying back in the grass and looking up at stars. Corny gave him a confused look that Link responded to with a knowing one. "What now?"

"I _knew_ it," Link said. "You like Miss Maybelle, don't you?"

"What? I- Link, I do _not_," Corny said, although his bright red cheeks spoke otherwise. "We're just business partners and she and her group happen to be extremely talented. They help our show a lot!"

"Mhmm," Link said perceptively. "Of course."

"Link!" Corny said. "Stop that!"

"Oh, come on and just admit it," Link pushed, rolling his eyes. "You aren't any better than the racists if you don't."

There was a hush as Corny fought a silent battle with himself: he could admit he liked Maybelle and receive endless torture from the seventeen-year-old colleague or he could say that he didn't and fall into a category with the people he hated most… and still be teased endlessly from the seventeen-year-old colleague of his.

"Yes," Corny admitted, his ears red. "I'll admit, I rather like Maybelle, but don't go running your mouth about it."

"My lips are sealed," Link promised with a perfect smile. "Wait…" Link paused dramatically. "Shall I wink?" He asked jokingly. "I'll give you the old Link Wink. Then you'll _know _I'm serious." Corny laughed as Link gave him a playful wink.

"How do your parents put up with you, Link?" Corny asked with a laugh. Link froze up and went stony faced. Corny, seeing Link's actions, stopped laughing and looked seriously at the teen.

"Heh," Link gave a nervous laugh. "I don't know. Why?"

"You're just odd, that's all," Corny said slowly, trying to look into Link's piercing blue-eyed gaze. "You okay?"

"Oh, yeah," Link said nervously. He stood up quickly; Corny followed suit but in a much slow manner, observing the boy as he stood. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just… I need to use the bathroom. Got to grease my hair and all. You know how bad I look without it up." Link pointed purposelessly at his head and the hair that flopped over his face. He scrambled away from Corny as quickly as he could and disappeared into the boys' bathroom.

"Weird kid," Corny muttered to himself. He straightened himself up and walked over to the bathroom door. Rapping on the door with his knuckles, he asked, "Link? You all right in there?"

"I'm fine!" Link called back. "Just working on my hair!"

"Then can I come in?" Corny asked. Corny could almost hear Link going rigid.

"Um, why?" Link asked nervously.

"Because... I need to... wash my hands," Corny invented, rollings his eyes at his own stupid lie. The door clicked open revealing a red-eyed Link in the doorway. His nose was steadily growing pinker by the second; his hair didn't even have an ounce of grease in it yet. Corny raised his eyebrows at Link. He was suddenly overcome by guilt. He was intruding on something that was not really his business. "You know what? I'll use the other bathroom. Never mind."

Link swung shut the door and Corny turned on his heel to leave. And even hours later, after rehearsals were finished and Corny was getting another round of make up plastered on his face, he couldn't help but to wonder what went on after hours.

**Author's Note: It was a rather weak ending... but again, I tried. It's my first fic so I don't expect to get it perfect. Review with thoughts please?**


End file.
